Amygdala
by Ari Vela
Summary: Peter felt a renegade train of forbidden images crash into his consciousness, images of Olivia strutting with a commanding stride in sky-scraping heels, covered in scraps of black fabric not modest enough to call itself clothing.
1. Limbic

**AN: After re-watching season 1 and catching an old episode of CSI, this idea crept into my head. I also vaguely stole an idea from an old 24 episode. Points if you can guess what it is. Set some time during season 1, maybe early season 2 of Fringe. "M" rating will kick in for the next chapter or two, because I know that's why you clicked on this fic in the first place. First chapter is the setup.  
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**Enjoy. Reviews are love,**

**-Ari**

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><p>Peter tapped his pen on the table, with his chin buried deep in the palm of his hand and his fingers doing their best to conceal the tension in his teeth. Without the support of his arm, his unhinged jaw might have dropped to the plastic tabletop with a shameless thud moments before. He was sitting in the most bizarre mission brief he had ever witnessed, and that thought alone was a whole other ironic hell.<p>

Broyles had strung together three words that had no business cohorting in one conversation. Dunham. Brothel. Undercover.

These three words played on in an endless loop in Peter's head. His poor brain tried to make sense of them, to force them into a coherent thought, but his proverbial wheels just spun in muddy trenches. He stared at Broyles while he spoke, trying to rip some sense from this conversation and cram it into his thought process.

"Believe me when I say this, Agent Dunham. I did not want to authorize this," Broyles said, his face indecisive between disturbed and direct. "We're scraping the bottom of this god-forsaken barrel. We're running out of leads and time. We don't really have a choice. Because of the nature of the case, it falls into our jurisdiction."

Olivia sat with a furrowed brow; the fact that she didn't look like she'd been smacked headlong with a crow bar disturbed Peter.

"So, all of these career politicians dropping dead for the past three months with gaping sores all over their skin..."

"Have been traced back to this particular Vegas brothel," Broyles finished for her. "Walter turned in his analysis on the latest victim."

"Senator Beason? Walter said the sores all over his skin looked like genital warts," Olivia said evenly, although she looked like she was concealing a grimace.

Peter shuddered involuntarily, vowing to himself to invent a man-sized condom bodysuit for this trip. He would never have sex with strangers again.

"Correct. Since the senator was found in his home right outside of Boston, he has been the first victim Walter could examine within hours of his death, as you know," Broyles said. "Walter's rather unnecessarily detailed report outlines the pathology of the virus. It's like human papillomavirus on hormonally enhanced performance drugs. Anyone who contracts it will face almost certain death."

"So, we have a renegade pathologist using a venereal disease to assassinate politicians? How does he target them? How would he even infect them?" Olivia's brain was working just a furiously as Peter's, but she moving in a much more productive direction.

"According to Walter's report, our suspect managed to isolate a strand of the virus that only affects males. This particular brothel in Las Vegas caters to men who have a stripper fetish. We believe the suspect is somehow infecting the prostitutes, using them as carriers, and the clients contract the disease that way. Walter said the virus would only be contagious for 48 hours after contraction before it becomes dormant in a female. We believe our target has the resources to research the clientele, which men go in on which days and times and which girls they typically patronize."

"You think this is an inside job? The suspect works at the brothel?" Peter blurted out.

"We can't rule it out," Broyles said wearily. "You and Dunham will go undercover in this brothel, you as a patron and Dunham as an employee, so to speak."

Peter glanced at Olivia sideways, although her face was passive, he was sure he saw unadulterated terror in her green eyes.

"Dunham, I know this is asking a lot. But we're out of options," Broyles said.

They left the conference room, Peter with a tight chest and Olivia looking vaguely ill. After handing them a folder full of comprehensive documents on the case and flight tickets, Broyles had dismissed them with vague instructions to prepare for the trip. Over the next few days, Olivia's trepidation appeared to give way to her normal passive confidence. When Peter knocked on her apartment door a week later at 4 a.m. to leave for the airport, he might have even guessed that she was going on vacation if he didn't know any better. She cracked open the door, hand on a rolling suitcase, a duffel bag on her shoulder and wearing a sleepy smile.

"Hey," she rasped. Peter smiled at the lethargic husk in her voice.

"You ready to go?"

"Lead the way."

After loading up her suitcase, they set off for Logan International. Although their flight didn't leave until 7:15, Olivia had insisted on getting there before 5 a.m. so they could go over the case file and make it through security.

"Plus, the cafe in our terminal has the best bagels," she assured Peter.

She had traded her FBI black body armor for a nondescript, long-sleeve maroon shirt and sensible jeans that hugged her hips. Her hair was still vaguely damp; Peter could still smell her shampoo.

"I've been talking to Walter about his report," Peter said, reaching for a subject that knocked loose the urge to tuck her hanging strands behind her ear. "The virus almost acts like cancer on meth, the victims' organs just fail. He thinks the suspect is injecting the virus into the prostitutes, considering the profile is male and he can't be alive if he's infected."

"That makes sense," Olivia said, training her eyes on the road as Peter merged onto the ramp for I-90. "Police have reported finding track marks on the girls' inner thighs. According to Walter, it would be difficult to impossible for someone to inject themselves with drugs there without some serious consequences."

"I've also done some research on the brothel," Peter said. "It's called the Red Door, right off the strip on Sahara Avenue. According to the reviews, some pretty prominent figureheads have been spotted there. It's made up like a strip club, but it has stalls and rooms in the back for the X-rated activities."

"So, our suspect is a mad scientist with the wherewithal all to engineer a killer STD, and he's infecting prostitutes to take out his targets," Olivia's brow furrowed. "Broyles said he briefed the club owner, said the guy is protective of his employees and is being extremely cooperative. We're meeting him at 3 p.m. Our plane lands just after noon, so that gives us time to drop off our bags and grab something to eat."

Olivia yawned and stretched, her arms curling over the headrest. Peter tried not to look pathetic as he saw the thin fabric of her shirt stretch over her chest and flat torso.

"So, are you prepared to play your 'role'?" He asked slyly, his eyes holding the windshield up with determination.

"Yeah," Olivia laughed. "I even took some classes."

"What classes?" Peter felt his throat constrict as some unbidden images burst from the back of his brain. Olivia gave him a sarcastically reproving look.

"C'mon, Peter," She said, half smiling. "I'm pretty sure you can work that out for yourself."

After 30 more minutes of Olivia yawning and spewing case facts and Peter resolutely attempting to mentally deny his arousal at the thought of Olivia wearing barely anything and attached to a pole, they were dragging their bags through security. Two bagels and an hour of superficial conversation later, they were sitting on the plane. Olivia had fallen asleep, her head had slid onto Peter's shoulder. He guessed that she hadn't been sleeping much since that mission brief with Broyles a week ago. He couldn't really blame her; the stakes for this one were exceedingly high. If they were discovered or something went wrong, they were dealing with a seriously demented individual, someone who could kill quietly and passively.

After a long layover in Atlanta, the couple touched ground at McCarran International. Peter almost belly-laughed when Olivia told the car rental receptionist they were in Vegas to elope.

"Why are you smirking at me?" She asked as she drove off the lot to their hotel.

"Olivia Dunham, I could never picture you running off to Vegas to marry _anybody_," he laughed.

"Well, why else would you be in Vegas?" She asked indignantly.

"Oh, I dunno," he said, still suppressing a leftover chuckle. "Going undercover to bust badass pathological geniuses?"

"Shut up, Bishop," she said as she shoved her foot on the gas.

After they arrived at their Strip-adjacent hotel, Olivia checked them in before hoisting their bags up to their adjoining rooms on the 12th floor.

"Here's your key," she said, stopping in front of her own room. "I'll meet you out here in ten minutes."

Peter deposited his bags on the queen bed in his own room. He tested the mattress and changed his shirt before knocking on Olivia's door minutes later to let her know that he was ready to go. She opened the door with one hand, the other lost in the process of tying her hair in an atypically messy bun.

"Sorry, I was just getting cleaned up," she said, sounding out of breath and wearing a different, short-sleeve blue shirt. She left the door open for him as she finished her hair in an untidy loop and headed back towards her open duffel bag on her bed.

"No problem," he said, catching a glance of black lace as Olivia stuffed it bluntly into the bag before zipping it roughly and slinging it over her shoulder.

The left side of Peter's brain began screaming at the right. Peter felt a renegade train of forbidden images crash into his consciousness, images of Olivia strutting with a commanding stride in sky-scraping heels, covered in scraps of black fabric not modest enough to call itself clothing. The responsible part of Peter's mind tried to fetter the obdurate id ravaging his concentration to the boundary beyond conscience. This would be a dangerous undertaking for Olivia, he told himself. The stakes were immeasurably high.

But, holy shit, to see her shake it in black lace. An amygdaloid monster screamed in primal satisfaction from the bottom of Peter's brain. As she walked past him with an innocent smile, unknowing that she was literally undoing him with every little hint of vulnerability and unintentional sensuality, unaware of his lurch of arousal when she grazed his arm with her fingers, he wished he'd had time for a cold shower.


	2. Occipital

**A/N: Sorry it took so long to update. Deadlines at work + family time during the holidays = little time for smut writing. So, we're getting close to it here. If you like this, then you'll love the next chapter. Sorry for the long chapter and excessive dialogue. I'm just trying to fit everything in!**

**Leave some feedback, if you feel froggy,**

**-Ari**

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><p>Peter gripped the wheel while listening to Olivia's side of a cell phone conversation with Broyles. She was sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat, case files spread across her lap with a Blackberry shoved in her ear, asking what would be the oddest questions to the untrained ear.<p>

"And Walter seems to think we need to wear condom-like hazmat suits because...?"

Peter laughed to himself as he slid through the Vegas traffic; he was simultaneously amused and terrified at his and his father's similar paranoid musings. He had been beating back his earlier forbidden thoughts with reminders of his and Olivia's working relationship and a heap of other unpleasant insights. Their current case of genital warts gone wild was certainly helping.

Finishing the conversation with a curt salutation, Olivia heaved a huge sigh and burrowed her forehead into her hands.

"Do we need to do more mission prep?" Peter asked.

"I might as well have these case files tattooed to the inside of my eyelids," Olivia said, emerging from her hand-cocoon.

"I was thinking more along the lines of a glass of whiskey or five," Peter said with a crooked smile.

"If only," Olivia sighed, thumbing through the contents of her smartphone. "Broyles has a few more leads on our suspect. There have been dozens of deaths over the last three months similar to Beason and the other dead senators. Broyles said the earlier deaths may have been some sort of twisted practice shot, later ones may just be collateral damage, guys that had sex with an infected prostitute but weren't purposely targeted. They haven't connected all the dots yet. Although, he did say all the assassinated politicians were opposing reforms in the mental health arena. He sent the parameters of the case to the BAU and requested a profile. He's emailing it to me now."

"So, what are we looking at?"

"We're looking for two suspects," she said evenly. Peter stared at her while they stopped at a downtown red light.

"You're kidding?"

"Unfortunately, no. The primary suspect, the mastermind behind the whole thing stays in the lab, doesn't get his hands dirty. So, we're looking for the accomplice. According to the profile, he's basically a lab rat. Socially awkward, emotionally weak, probably short and scrawny with a speech impediment. Totally not a physical threat. That's part of how he gets close to the prostitutes before injecting them. The profile also says he probably carries around a notebook, probably sits in the back of the club and takes notes. He's meticulous. He does the homework and reports back to our primary before going in for the kill," Olivia said, brow furrowed as she combed over more files in the report. "The murders are passive, he wouldn't be capable of physically overcoming anyone. If we find the accomplice, we find the primary."

"That's a hell of a lot of information on not a lot of evidence," Peter said.

"There's a lot more. I'm forwarding you the report now," Olivia said. "When we get there, I'm going to talk to the girls and see if they can remember anyone matching this description. Maybe I can draw up a composite."

"Good idea," Peter responded. "We're almost there, by the way. This is Sahara."

As they turned onto the busy avenue, Olivia started shoving files back into the folder. They parked behind the club and headed for the front door, which was predictably painted red. Olivia's duffel bag hung by her jeaned hip while Peter eyed it furtively.

"So, what's in the bag?" Peter goaded, admitting to himself that he must be some sort of masochist.

"My 'disguise,'" Olivia said vaguely. Not for the first time, Peter felt painfully unsatisfied.

"No worries," he said, just as much to himself as to Olivia. "I'll see the full show later."

"You're not helping," Olivia said. Peter was slightly taken aback at her serious tone.

"Hey," he said, gently grabbing her arm, turning her towards him. "I was kidding, 'Liv. Why are you so tense?"

"Because, Peter!" she blurted with exasperation and wide eyes. "Because I'm about to throw myself into a bull pen with a rebel scientist shoving needles in girls' legs and taking down prominent politicians for reasons not yet completely discernible. And I'm about to do it all while shaking my ass in my underwear in front of strange men who may or may not want to screw me, which I don't make a habit of doing it public. Pardon me if I'm not completely at ease with the situation."

"Listen to me," Peter said, grabbing her shoulders and looking down at her. "You have nothing to worry about. We've done this dozens of times and you always know exactly what you're doing. I'm going to be right here the whole time, and I won't let anything happen. And I promise I won't judge you're performance."

Despite herself, Olivia cracked a wry smile. The little men in Peter's brain were dancing in celebration at winning any hint of approval or amusement from her. She gathered herself with a deep breath and headed resolutely for the door.

The club was clean, but not the fanciest place Peter had ever seen. The girls here must be pretty good, and probably discreet, if the guys in Washington are flocking to this place, Peter thought to himself.

They found the club owner behind the bar, polishing the counter top with a clean rag. He was broad-shouldered, but his belly was swan-diving over his belt line. He had meaty hands, close-cropped dark hair, and a neatly trimmed beard. The man looked up as they walked through the bar towards him.

"Olivia Dunham?" the guy said in a nondescript baritone.

"Yes," she said, dumping her bag on a bar stool and leaning against the counter.

"And Peter Bishop?"

"That's me."

"Good. I talked with your supervisor about an hour ago. Broyles was his name? All business, that guy, huh? I tried to make a joke, but he wasn't having it," the man said. Olivia watched him with a stony expression. By the look on her face, jokes were obviously grounds for a kick in the groin. "Anyway, I'm Frank Gorana, I dunno if he told you my name."

"Right, Mr. Gorana, has Agent Broyles briefed you about the whole case?" Olivia asked, the speed with which she slipped from vulnerably annoyed to detached but determined both alarmed and impressed Peter.

"I know enough," Gorana said. "I know 5 of my biggest clients have croaked and that someone is infecting my staff. As you can imagine, the rumors are terrible for business. And the girls are actually scared, because I haven't been able to protect them from this. I can't have somebody assaulting them but I don't know what else I can do."

"I'm sure we'll figure it out," Olivia said with a small smile. Peter suspected that the man's protectiveness of his employees may knocked a few bricks out of the proverbial fortress around her heart. She rarely smiled during investigations. At all. She ran through some of the standard case questions, asked him he had seen anyone matching the profile, questioned him about any odd occurrences.

"Are your staff allowed to drink while on the clock? Has anyone reported being drugged?" Olivia asked.

"They're allowed to drink if the client wants them to drink with them, but only one or two. There have been incidents in the past, but we always report them to the police. I tell them to wait at least 20 minutes after having a drink before taking a client to the back for services," Gorana said. "Why do you ask?"

"We think the suspect might be drugging the girls and injecting them with a virus," Olivia said. "But there are several other possible means. I'll talk to the girls before the bar opens."

"No problem. Listen, I'm not sure how far you plan on taking this whole undercover thing, and that's your business, but if you don't want to, you know, engage, just ask the guy what price he's willing to pay, and tell him that you're too expensive. And stay from the guys who look like high rollers, because they'll haggle the hell out of you."

"Right. Thanks. Do you ever have a problem with guys being too persistent?"

"Not really. The girls are free to refuse service to whoever they want, honestly. I just ask that they bring in a certain amount each night. The alcohol provides a lot of the profits, to be honest. Just the appeal of having sex with strippers is enough to get them out and spending cash. It wouldn't be a big deal for you to refuse anyone. There's plenty to go around."

"I know this is Vegas, but do all the girls strip down to nothing?" Olivia's voice was choked with apprehension.

"Not necessarily. Some wear pasties or bras and some let it all hang out. Some guys like the subtlety and others just want to bang something naked, so we keep it varied. You do whatever makes you comfortable," he said, almost looking like he was suppressing a chuckle.

"Good to know."

"Have you ever danced before?" Gorana asked, looking skeptical that a straight-laced FBI agent like Olivia could convincingly hump a pole for money.

"Not professionally, but I've been doing yoga for two years. And when we were assigned to this case, I spent a few hours a day for about a week with an instructor working on a routine, so to speak. I should be good to go," Olivia said, but was decidedly terrible at concealing her trepidation, at least to Peter. Peter felt an inexplicable rush swoop through his stomach as he again pictured Olivia swinging around a pole in heels and hip-hugging shorts.

"Ok. A few of the girls came in early to help you get settled in and answer any of your questions. They're waiting for you in the back," Frank said.

Olivia turned to Peter, "I'm staying here. It would look suspicious if you stayed here until the club opens, but I need you to stay close by. I can send you updates as I get them. And be here at 7:00 sharp when the doors open?"

"You got it," Peter smiled at her. She gave a small one back before pulling her bag back onto her shoulder and disappearing somewhere behind the bar. Peter exchanged goodbyes with the barkeep before wandering back out towards the car. He had a couple hours to kill before showing back up to the club; he kept an impatient countdown in his head. He couldn't shake his agitated apprehension, the imminent danger of the mission itself and the fact that it called for a nearly naked Olivia was generating a palpable tension. He wished he could scoop it out like pulp. It had been apparent in Olivia's vague references her duties for this particular case. She had shared every minute detail of the mission file except for her own part, and it drove Peter up a wall and snaked under his skin like a parasite. The inexorable desire to see her writhe around in her underwear made him feel like a pubescent boy again, pathetic and needy.

Later in his hotel room, he pulled a long-sleeve white knit shirt over his bare chest. He hardly ever wore it, but he figured it would be easier for Olivia to see him in the dark bar. He shoved a lighter and cigarettes in his pocket before heading for the door at 6:45. The club would open in 15 minutes and Peter could feel an adrenaline bubble swell in his chest. Just as he put his hand on the doorknob, his phone chirped at him. Olivia had sent a composite of their suspect tagged with a vague, "see you soon."

Once he paid his cover and entered the club, he sat at the bar in the back so he had a good view of the place. Scanning the room for any men that matched the bespectacled boyish face depicted in Olivia's composite drawing, Peter remembered that Olivia said that backup from the Vegas PD was on call. He must have sat there for about an hour, feeling an impatient tension creep up his spine, before he heard the DJ's voice sweep over the music system.

"Gentlemen, if you'll bring your attention to the left side stage, we have a new girl in our ranks. If you like blonde burlesque dancers, keep your eyes on Mariana!"

Peter's adrenaline bubble rose to his tight throat as he turned just in time to see the lights go up and a leggy blonde in a black fedora and a men's blue button down walk purposefully onto the stage. Mariana was the stage name Peter had suggested to her, based on a Spanish folk hero from the 19th century. He smiled triumphantly to himself, knowing that she had taken his advised name. Olivia's hair was tucked into a neat bun under the brim of her hat, her high heels had to be at least five inches tall. Her long legs were covered in lacy, black thigh-high stockings. Peter got up from the bar and found a table near the stage, he lit a cigarette and let it burn in the ashtray. They had agreed on this signal so that Olivia could find Peter in oppressive dark.

A soulful voice came over the speakers as Olivia arched her back against the pole, hands gripping the pole above her head as she let the fedora hide her face. Knowing jazz, Peter immediately recognized the song as Nina Simone's version of "Feeling Good." The singer's ethereal _a capella_ voice and the silhouette of Olivia's stunning legs caused blood to start churning towards his groin.

_It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me. And I'm feeling good. _

As the jazzy trumpets started their sexual rhythm, it was like the notes were controlled by the swaying motion of her hips. She spun around the pole with a beautifully extended leg, and slowly began popping the buttons on her shirt, revealing her smooth stomach and a flash of black lace. She turned her back to the audience, letting the shirt hit the ground and revealing black lacy boy shorts, attached to garters holding up her stockings. She gripped the pole and worked her hips to the sultry music. Peter's eyes refused to blink as she stretched her leg parallel with the pole in a standing split.

She climbed the pole, her long legs wrapping around the shaft. Once she reached the top, she let her head fall backwards, her torso creating an inviting arch while she extended her legs.

Peter was breathless. Any shy or apprehensive pretense Olivia had adopted had fallen to the floor with her forgotten shirt. Peter was transfixed on the swell of her breasts pushed up in her black bustier. She moved like she had seen this stage 1,000 times. Olivia slid gracefully to the floor, tipping of her hat off with a sensual finger and letter her blond hair fall in loose curls. Her charcoal-rimmed green eyes and red lips burned bright in the dark. She looked straight at Peter as she crawled across the stage, curving and arching with the brass notes. She turned over, throwing her head back and extending her legs in a "V" shape. Peter's dick surged to life in his jeans, protesting against its denim cage.

As the music faded, Olivia picked up the discarded shirt and walked off the stage, leaving Peter alone in the bar with agitated need and a painfully relentless erection.


	3. Parietal

**A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long to post. I really have no excuse. So I leave you with four words: Let the smut begin!**

**Enjoy,**

**-Ari**

**P.S. I need a beta reader, if anybody is interested. Shoot me a message!  
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><p>Sitting on this god-forsaken bar stool was turning into a slow torture. The nerves in Peter's legs screamed for action as a barely clothed Olivia kept sneaking into his peripherals as he scanned the club for anyone even slightly resembling Olivia's composite drawing. Her five-inch heels made her already extensive legs exceptionally gracefully and powerful, pumping her steps with a confident swagger. It was a heart breaker's stride. Peter was close to slamming his head on the bar in attempts to beat mental images of her gams wrapped around his bare back, feet still in those erection-inducing heels. Despite his cerebral feud between qualified acumen and tantalizing but completely unsatisfying torment of imagining Olivia in varying states of undress, his brilliant brain was still able to dig out the irony of the situation. Although she had skillfully adopted the act of an experienced dancer who could rock your world with just five minutes and a phone booth, she had betrayed her love of boundaries and security by donning her blue button-down and black fedora while most of the other dancers paraded around topless. Yet, almost absurdly, she was generating some kind of sexy mystique that had almost every man's and even some female patron's heads craned in her direction.<p>

He turned to the bar and buried his head in his hands as Olivia cranked up the charm for a nearby patron, trying to physically wring out these beleaguering assaults on his sensibility. Although he knew she was digging around for the case, he couldn't deny the sparks of jealousy and hunger expanding in his chest. It was bad enough seeing Olivia out of her usual armor, he had seen her in her underwear countless times in the lab before diving into the isolation tank without the abnormally elevated libido, but her shameless confidence on the stage paired with what he already knew about her was ratcheting up his want. He had never seen her like this before, and she wasn't wasting it on him. He gave in to the urge to look at Olivia over his fist as it cradled his chin. She was leaning with a lazy grace on the bar, two men were eye-fucking the exposed skin between the hem of the shirt and her thigh-highs. She hadn't acknowledged him once. He would kill just for a wink or a smile at this point. Even worse, this pathetic need was forcing him to face a truth he'd been burying since he set foot back in Boston from Iraq. He wasn't just attracted to Olivia, he wanted her. All of her. If she was ever aware of what she was doing to him, of what she could do, he'd lose all control. The notion tied his stomach in knots.

He wanted to kick something, namely the douchebag who had the 'nads to put a hand on her waist.

He tore his eyes away from her and the suitors, disgusted by thoughts of them haggling a price for her "services." He scanned the club with a hard gaze, determined to keep his mind on the case and catching their perp. It wasn't long before a beautiful brunette wearing nothing but a white leather skirt the size of a belt, fishnets and a pair of decorative pasties approached Peter at the bar.

"Are you Mariana's partner?" she whispered in his ear, with a sensual hand on his arm.

"I am," he said hesitantly, his brow knitted together.

"I have something to show you," she said, her voice eager and anxious as she took Peter's hand and lead him towards a door behind the stage where he had seen several of the other prostitutes pulling customers behind earlier. Peter was confused but obliged, sneaking a glance at Olivia from the corner of his eye. Her head followed the pair until he disappeared to the back of the club. Peter felt a volatile cocktail of redemption and alarm boil in his esophagus. When she closed the door behind them, Peter saw a hallway of curtained stalls and rooms, undoubtedly for the X-rated activities for sale. Peter heard faint groans penetrating the thin walls that confirmed his suspicions.

The brunette pulled him into a stall and pulled out a cell phone from God knew where.

"I'm sorry, but I didn't want to bother her and blow her cover," she said, turning the phone screen towards Peter and handing it to him. On the screen was a blurry image of a very skinny man with glasses and black hair. It wasn't until Peter looked at the girl and back to the screen before he realized what he was looking at.

"I know it's fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure that's the guy you're looking for. I've seen him before and I helped Olivia with the sketch she did, and it looks just like him. He almost always sits in the back and a lot of the girls have talked about strange run-ins with him. He goes by 'Martin,' but I have no idea if that's his real name. He's really odd. I always kinda felt bad for him," she said, a resentful bite in her words.

"When did you take this?" Peter said, his mind suddenly snapping back into its usual sagacious pace.

"A few minutes ago. I saw him walk in and it occurred to me that he might be who you want, so I snapped this with my cell," she said. "He's almost always at the same table in the back. He's usually the only one back there because, well, everyone else is near the stage..."

"Right," Peter said. "What's your name?"

"Mercedes."

"No," Peter laughed, shaking his head. "Your real name."

"Angela," she smiled.

"Do you know where he is right now?"

"I saw him head for the back," she said, taking her phone back from Peter after he sent the photo to his own Blackberry.

"There's a guy named Al standing with the security guards outside. He's with the Las Vegas PD. Can you show him this and tell him the name? Tell him to keep an eye out in case he hits the door?"

"Yeah, I think I can manage that."

"Thanks, Angela," he said, smiling lopsidedly as he headed back out into the bar. He sent the photo to Broyles, tagged with his name and a few of the details Angela just voiced to him. No one noticed as he slipped into the crowd, shoving his hands into his pocket and eying a collection of tables at the back of the club. There he was, barely discernible in the shadows, scribbling in a leather notebook and scanning the club's patrons like a hawk with a god complex.

_Got you._

Peter began shuffling through the throng of people around the stage as they watched another dancer climbing the pole and dangling her top in her fingers. Peter spared her a glance before continuing his pursuit of Olivia. He could see her in a corner, shaking her head as a well built man with gelled black hair stomped away from her, apparently spurned. Peter tried to suppress a triumphant grin as he approached her. She seemed distant, her eyes unfocused as she watched Angela walk from behind the stage in the opposite direction.

She turned her head towards Peter, her face blank and her black-lined eyes deep and ambiguous. Peter braked in the middle of the crowd as her eyes met his, fascinated and bewildered at the desperate curiosity ingrained in her expression. Her eyes were cast wide, spreading a net in hopes of catching a prized answer, like a hurt child searching for a sentimental teddy bear lost in the throes of a nightmare. For the first time that night, she held eye contact with him for more than two seconds, an eternity pregnant with polarity and ambivalence. She was searching for answers from Peter.

Before he could muster the courage to conquer the inexplicable guilt quelling in his throat and walk across the boundary Olivia had proverbially dug in the sand, she dropped her gaze and slipped out of sight. Contrition and confusion tied Peter's feet to the floor for several minutes, his eyes still glued to the spot Olivia had been standing seconds before. He finally crashed into a chair a minute later, cradling his falling ego in his hands as he buried his head into his palms.

It wasn't until he heard the DJ announce Olivia's stage name again that he popped up from his fetal crumple, like a Labrador on he trail of waterfowl. He watched intently as she strode back onto the stage, her stance confident as she gripped the pole. Peter vaguely recognized "Mannish Boy" blasting on the speakers as she twirled around the pole in a spiral of legs and heels. Her movements lacked the same quiet grace she'd had before. This dance was aggressive, like she had something to prove. She punctuated her moves with ardent kicks and powerful thrusts, kicking out her hips for every strong note. She bit her lip lustfully as she ripped open her button-down, slowly peeling it off with a sultry tongue on her lip.

Peter's eyebrows reached for his hairline. Even after seeing her in stripper fare, she didn't cease to shock him. This was dirty and deliberate. Every thrust, every eye flutter and lascivious smile was meant to raise the erections of every man near the stage. Her first trip on the stage still contained a whisper of modesty, by avoiding direct eye contact with the most ardent audience members or turning her back as she shed her attire. But now, she faced them full on. She used the pole as a poorly disguised hint at what she could do with an actually phallus, wrapping her legs around the shaft and arching against it with sensual abandon.

After a series of sexual acrobatics, Olivia slid to the floor and rolled onto her hands and knees. She crawled shamelessly to a group of men leering and leaning over the stage, begging for proximity. The way her back arched made Peter want to earn her screams. Once Olivia reached the edge of the stage, she rolled onto her back and spread her legs in a sumptuous V-shape as men tucked large bills in the band of her skimpy underwear. Peter almost exploded with a protective jealousy, fighting the urge to climb on stage, throw her over his shoulder and do unspeakable things to claim her as his own. She laid on her back and arched, the curves of her bare torso almost as inviting as the shapes she made with her long legs with the music. The same man Olivia had turned away earlier leaned forward to slip what looked like $100 bill into the lining of her bustier, his fingers lingering in the cup as Olivia smiled lewdly at him. Peter was on the verge of charging the man when the music stopped and Olivia sauntered off stage, black fedora and button-down in hand. Peter needed to throttle or fuck something. If he had his way, he would do both before the night ended.

Peter pulled out his wallet and approached Olivia with an on the other side of the bar, talking to the same dark-haired man. He felt emboldened by a sense of righteous indignation, reckless and impulsive. She must have known what she was doing to him, because she didn't seem to be surprised when she turned to him after he tapped her on the shoulder. The thought terrified a small part of him, a vulnerable id lurking beneath his impetuously confident shell.

"Let's talk," he said placidly. "Mariana."

"I'm not much of a talker," she said dismissively. "Maybe another girl can take care of you."

Before she turned her back on him, Peter held up a handful of $100 bills. Olivia stopped in her tracks, eyes trained on the money, looking confused.

"Maybe I could buy your time, sweetheart?" Peter said, simultaneously hating himself and congratulating his own innovation. Olivia's looked up at Peter, eyes wide and bewildered, like someone had thrown cold water on her during a peaceful dream.

"I'd settle for a lap dance," Peter said, grinning. He had her in a corner. Olivia walked into Peter, face resolutely set, turning away from the dark-haired man. She took the money from his hand and pushed him into a chair, silently accepting his challenge. She circled Peter like a vendetta-driven shark, touching his shoulders and ensnaring him in an unblinking glare. Peter fought the urge to touch her. She took her fedora off her head and held it in front of her own face as she bent down to whisper in his ear. Peter instinctively leaned in to her lips as they grazed against his ear.

"Really cute, Bishop," she whispered ominously. "You're not getting your money back."

"I'm sure it'll be worth it," he said, stifling a smile.

"Remember," she said, putting the fedora on his head, almost playfully. "No touching."

She lined up her body parallel to his, her back to him. She bent at the waist, slowly, until all Peter could see was the swell of her ass cheeks and the contours of her heat, a full view obstructed only by an obstinate scrap of lack lace. Peter felt blood pumping quickly to his groin, his member reacting to the proximity of a desired target. His hips subconsciously shifted forward. She threw her hair back and arched her back, slowly rolling her torso back up. Peter took measured breaths, refusing to give in to the urge to pin her to the stage and give everyone a hell of a show. She turned slowly, her eyes alight. She bent over and put her hands on his knees, spreading them apart, almost forcefully.

"All of the other girls think you're attractive," Olivia whispered to him again. "You could have gotten one of them to entertain you."

"Maybe I'll ask for a favor when they clock out," he said.

"Don't bother," Olivia said, smiling smugly. "I told them all that you were gay."

Peter chewed his tongue, half amused and half of mind to prove her wrong. She stood between his legs and leaned forward, slowly sliding her body down his. His skin ignited pushed her body close to his, an electric shock rushing to his nerve endings. She slid down his body until she was kneeling, her face dangerously close to his crotch. She stood and turned, never losing her sexual grace. With hands on his knees again, she lowered her buttocks to a centimeter above his groin. She circled her hips and arched against him. Peter felt his last thread of restraint stretch to the breaking point.

"Olivia," Peter said, grabbing her hips and pressing his forehead into her hair. "Stop. We need to stop."

"Peter?" She sounded genuinely worried.

"We need to talk in private," he said lowly into her ear, trying his best to dig out his common sense from the haze locked in his brain. "I need to tell you something."

Olivia stood and faced him, her face inscrutable. She began walking away; Peter followed her to the same doorway that Angela had led him to an hour earlier. She led him down the hall to a series of doors and ducked into an open room, shutting the door behind Peter. The stall was small, with a cushioned bench built into the wall.

"What's so important that you almost blew our cover, Peter?" she said, arms crossed over her bare torso.

"He's here," Peter said, feeling mentally exhausted, unable to think straight and struggling to remember the whole point of this night in the first place. The scantily clad object of his affection standing feet from him was not helping him focus. He rubbed his eye sockets, trying to push his mind back on task. "Our suspect, the guy in your composite drawing. He's here. I've got the Vegas PD and Broyles on it already. But you're leading, so I wanted to let you know."

"Where is he? How do you know?" she said, eyes skeptical and refusing to untie her knotted arms.

"He's in the back, scribbling in a notebook just like the profile said he would. The brunette I talked to earlier, goes by Mercedes, pulled me back here to show me a photo of him she took on her phone. So I told her to show the cops outside and I sent the information to Broyles so he could coordinate everything."

"Oh," she said. "That's what you were doing," she said, her shoulders slackened slightly from their uptight salute. A trickle of understanding started filling Peter; Olivia had thought Angela turned him into a client.

"What did you think I was doing?" Peter said, inclining his head and taking half of a step towards her.

"I don't know," she said, subconsciously stepping away from his advance, trying to sound like she didn't give a rat's ass what he did with other barely clothed females while she was nearby. "I thought maybe you got bored and, I dunno, found somebody to indulge you."

"You really think I would do that?" Peter said with another step.

"Didn't you just say as much out there?" she said, much less confidently, continuing her retreat.

"I was kidding with you, Olivia," he said sternly. "I wouldn't do that."

"How am I supposed to know that?" Olivia said, suddenly irritated and swelling with her former anger. "Why didn't you just tell me when you found out? You talked to Angela over an hour ago. Were you just fucking around with me?"

"No," Peter said, the hurt in her eyes was like a slug to the gut. "No, that's not it at all."

"Then, what Peter?" she said, her voice apocalyptically low. "What was that?"

"I tried to tell you, Olivia," Peter said plainly, his voice strong but not rising. "You seemed a little preoccupied. You walked away every time I approached and barely looked at me. I had to wave money at you to get your attention-"

"Fuck you," she said as soon as the words were out of his mouth. His voice died in his throat. She had never spoken to him like that. It was worse than inhaling water. "You had my attention and you let me embarrass myself in front of you. You could have pulled me aside before I started shaking my ass in your face, if all you wanted was to tell me that son-of-a-bitch walked in hours ago."

"Olivia, I'm sorry," Peter relented. "I got distracted..."

"By what? This stupid game of yours?" she said, her words were low but venomous.

"Game?" Peter asked. He was genuinely confused now. He thought Olivia had been the one playing games.

"I've been trying my damnedest not to give into this stupid joke of a partnership," she said, more to herself than to Peter. "But, I slipped. For one goddamned second, I slipped and made an ass out of myself..."

"You think I'm playing games with you?" Peter said incredulously, genuinely injured that she thought he would stoop that low. Olivia answered with a resolutely pained expression that told Peter that she indeed believed she was an object to him.

"Olivia, it's taken every ounce of self-control I've got to do this tonight," he said, taking another step towards her. "There are girls parading around this club in nothing but panties, but my eyes are only on you. I signed up for this because I care about you and your safety. If I was here to fuck around, I wouldn't have sat on that damned bar stool and watched you flirt with sleazy assholes for eight hours. The only time I took my eyes off of you was to talk to that girl about seeing the suspect. It's 3 a.m. and I'm still here with you, and you think I'm playing games?"

Olivia, who had been watching Peter intently, dropped her gaze and bit her bottom lip.

"Stop it," Peter said.

"Stop what?" Olivia said, puzzled.

"Stop biting your lip," Peter was almost pleading.

"Why?"

Peter gently grabbed Olivia's wrist and placed her hand on his erection, a sexual salute that hadn't abated since she first danced. Olivia's eyes widened as she finally took notice of the impressive bulge in Peter's jeans.

"Because if you keep standing there, dressed like that, with that look on your face, I'm not responsible for my actions, sweetheart," Peter said as evenly as he could with Olivia's hand on his penis, his gaze hard and daring. Olivia looked up a second later, her eyes boring into Peter. She bit her lip again, almost smiling, as gently squeezed his shaft beneath the denim of his jeans. Peter slid his fingers into her hair, pulling her into him and kissing her deeply. He felt her squeeze his bulge more confidently, making him groan into her mouth. He put a firm hand on her hip and pressed himself to her, desperate to feel every inch of her against him. He pushed her against the wall, bucking his hips into her hand, her tongue sliding into his mouth. The rhythm of her tongue against his made him desperate to match it with his hips. He slipped a hand into her panties and found her already wet and primed for penetration. She purred loudly as he pressed a thumb against her clit and rubbed with a gentle pressure.

"Peter," she moaned erotically as his tongue found her clavicle. "Peter, you're torturing me."

He growled as he pressed himself against her again, starting a rhythm with his hips as he dipped a finger into her core. A sultry yelp escaped her as he slipped another finger in and stroked her most sensitive spot.

"Peter," she moaned. "Peter, I'm gonna lose it..."

"Fuck, Olivia," he moaned as he took her earlobe into his mouth and teased it with his tongue and teeth. "I want to hear you scream."

Olivia rolled her hips against him as he teased her with his skilled hand. She began to whimper as she spasmed around his fingers; Peter found himself thrusting himself against her as she came loudly. His erection was to the point of pain. Olivia pulled at the snap and zipper on his jeans until they fell to his ankles. He pulled her into him from the wall, walking backwards towards the cushioned bench as he worked the series of hooks on her bustier. They fell backward onto the cushioned bench. Peter's back hit the wall as Olivia straddled his lap. Peter tangled his hand in her hair again and tilted her head backwards as he ravished her neck, gently sucking, biting and licking while she moaned desperately. She tugged his boxers off of his hips and pulled his sweater from his shoulders.

Peter pulled her tight to him as he kissed her jawline. He titled her backward as he traced his tongue down the contours of her neck, over her collar bone, and into the canyon between her bare breasts. She moaned loudly as teased her left nipple with his tongue, and her right with his thumb.

"Holy shit," she whimpered.

Peter groaned against her skin, pushing the scrap of black lace aside and poising his dick at her slick entrance. Peter felt the rumbles of pleasure beneath her throat; he grabbed her ass and slowly pulled her onto his rock-hard erection. He could feel her walls stretching around him as he inched inside of her at a tormentingly slow pace. Olivia yelped as he slid completely inside of her, closing her eyes erotically. She opened them, green orbs locking on Peter's blue ones. Her pupils stretching wide across the expanse of her irises.

"Peter," she whimpered. "You feel so big."

"Oh my god, Olivia..." Peter groaned and pulled out quickly, only to bring her back down hard on top of him again.

"Harder, please!" Olivia moaned as he pistoned into her. He stared at her beautiful body as she threw her head back, gazing hypnotically at her bouncing breasts as he continued his frenzied pace. He could feel her spasm around him. He cupped her face in one hand as she shattered, feeling a rush of warmth and whimpers as she collapsed against him. He slowed his pace as she rode the coaster back down. He could feel her grinding her hips into his again as he felt the beginnings of his own orgasm.

"Olivia, I'm so close..." he whispered.

"One more," she moaned.

Peter captured her lips in his again, their tongues swirling as he bucked into her. Olivia screamed in pleasure just as he tipped over the verge himself. He continued his rhythm, pumping his semen into her as he moaned and she grinded out another orgasm with him. He held her against him for a minute, feeling his erection still at attention inside of her. He grabbed her stocking-clad thighs and picked her up, pushing her against the wall before picking up a slow pace again. She wrapped her legs around his lower back as he gathered speed. She dragged her nails across his back, feeling another orgasm inflating as he pumped into her.

"Peter!" she moaned loudly as her organ contracted in pleasure. Peter bucked into her wildly as he felt his own climax building again. He spilled inside of her as his name fell from her mouth one last time. Peter kissed her shoulder as her feet met the ground again. He pulled her onto his lap as he collapsed against the bench again.

"Dammit, Olivia," Peter breathed.

"What?" She smiled against his shoulder.

"Sweetheart," he breathed into her ear, arms protectively encircling her tiny waist and hands braced on her back, "words just don't do it justice."


	4. Temporal

There was something intrusively aggressive about the way the red and blue lights hit Peter's cornea; an almost-epileptic pain thudded behind the bridge of his nose. Cop cars, so many fucking cop cars had crammed into this side street not wide enough to accommodate the calvary. All for a skinny lab assistant whose worst weapon was an STD-loaded syringe. It looked like the whole damned Las Vegas PD had heralded to this spot.

_Nevada doesn't fuck around about its brothels,_ Peter thought with a painful sarcasm that had failed to do him many favors tonight.

The blinding cavalcade emergency lights, the mortifying struggle with a suspect half Peter's size, a sort-of sex hangover from an extremely satisfying but hopelessly convoluted erotic romp in a back room, and his blonde 15-minute lover in stripper garb saving his ass from death by venereally motivated weirdo and emanating vibes colder than the deepest part of the Arctic Ocean.

It was all so _fucking_ **nauseating**.

Peter was biting back the bile bubble causing him this weird emotional heartburn. He hadn't spoken since the scuffle outside of the bar for fear he might puke on the detective's shoes, so he resorted to what he was sure were pathetic nods and head shakes to all the questions. He suspected the tire iron to his head may have something to with his current gastrointestinal calamity, maybe a concussion. But more than anything, the well-disguised panic set in Olivia's eyes every time they crossed his path was worse than the smell of a severed head boiled with cabbage, and given his current queasiness, Peter was desperately trying not to think of the situation that armed him for that analogy.

Peter was uncertain where her uneasiness was coming from. After they had, for lack of a better term, fucked like teenagers in the back room, Olivia's realization that the suspect that was very likely the party responsible for widespread death by genetically altered STD was sitting at a bar table while they indulged their impulses came hard and fast. He had rarely seen anyone dress so quickly, particularly into an article of clothing as complicated as that damned corset. She pulled the tiniest revolver Peter had ever seen from her stripper shorts and made a pursuit, and Peter quickly followed. The guy must have been prepared for a possible assault, because as soon as he saw Olivia with a gun trained at him, that motherfucker ran, knocking Olivia flat on her back. Peter pursued at a rapidity reserved for the most disgusting of perpetrators as his target headed for a back exit, tipping over waitresses and wasted cocktails on his way. Peter burst out into an empty alley, only to have the improvised weapon, probably found laying in the alley, crack against his skull. After all the assaults on his consciousness tonight, it was only appropriate that the suspect attacked its shell. Peter was really starting to hate all the irony.

Although it didn't knock him out, Peter's vision and motor skills were impeded by dripping blood and a shock reserved for severe blows to the head. Olivia, because she is too perfect for her own good, arrived just in time, tackling the skinny man before he could take another swing at Peter's head. The man got a few punches in against her, but stronger men have bent to the will of Olivia Dunham somehow or another. She body slammed him into the pavement, restrained him until an incoming cop could cuff him and gave him a bloody nose for good measure. Peter just had his ass saved by a girl.

His head felt like it had a crack the size of the equator. Olivia had a bloody forehead, but it made her look more brass-bounded than broken. She looked resolutely unbreakable, even as she mustered up a business tone despite the blood and fishnets she was wearing. He watched her morosely. He had always imagined that if they or he or she ever finally overcame whatever obstacles were keeping them apart, it would have cleared the relentlessly foggy atmosphere always hanging between them. Now it was so dense that Peter couldn't see a clear path. This limbic dance, this futile chess game they had been playing for the last year or two was finally at an impasse so complicated that Peter couldn't fathom the next move. Anytime one or the other got close, Olivia would throw up her walls or Peter would wiggle out into a path that was easier to walk until the next crossroads. But this, this was fucking atrocious in its complexity. In his own way, Peter had finally given up the control he so desperately needed to operate just to tear down a few bricks in her stupid walls. Instead, he seemed to reinforce them. There was no empathetic nod in his direction, no reassuring squeeze on his shoulder, not even a glance to acknowledge the steps they had taken together on this exhausting journey. It made him physically ill. Not that he needed the mollycoddling, but he thought a concussion sustained in the line of duty warranted at least a little sympathy. He finally admitted to himself how pathetic it was that he hoped he just kept missing her nervous and concerned glances in his direction. And he hated himself for craving it.

Peter finally turned away and found the most isolated curb he could find to sit and rub his bruised head and ego. He let his head fall into his hands, as he had too many times to count tonight, and rubbed his temples with his thumbs. Minutes, although he swear it felt like hours, later he felt a hand on his wrist. He didn't have to look up to know it was her. At this point, he was pretty sure he didn't want to.

"Peter," she said so softly, he wondered whether she was desperate not to be heard. He just grunted in response.

"Let me take you to the hospital," her voice was more firm, commanding, almost. He resisted with silence, his head still buried in his faithful hands.

"Peter, please," she said, still firmly but more gently. That and his penchant for snarky remarks was enough to pull his head up to meet her eyes. He tried not to soften at the sincere concern he found there.

"You know, this isn't exactly the situation I wanted to hear those words again," he tried to smile, but he meant it more than both of them anticipated. Olivia bit her lip, suppressing either a smile or a nervous resistance. Peter really wasn't sure which.

"Take what you can get?" she supplied with a lightness he knew she was struggling to maintain. He just shook his head and laughed as he stood.

"I guess that's how it's always going to be, huh?" he said, more bitterly than he realized, as he turned and headed for the SUV. He couldn't bring himself to see the effect his words had on her as he crawled into the passenger side, knowing that arguing wouldn't stop her from beating him into submission. He would either go to the hospital willingly, or they would argue and strain these delicate threads even more. And then they would go to the hospital. For the first time in his life, he just didn't have the strength or the energy to argue or fight it anymore. He pressed his head against the cool glass, and God it felt good. But not as good as releasing himself into Olivia as she screamed his name.

_Shut up_, Peter told his trauma-drunk id, _just shut up._

Peter felt the infuriatingly blonde object of his hard-won affection slide into the driver's seat next to him. He closed his eyes, trying his damnedest to evade her pitying looks. In a silent fit of pride, he decided that if he had to win her attention by being mortally wounded, then he didn't fucking want it. He made a gamble by forfeiting his emotional control to her, and he had lost this hand. She didn't have to vocalize it, he could see her fear and apprehension boil up like Old-fucking-Faithful as she ran away from him in that back room. He was so angry at Olivia, so flustered by this cerebral tug-of-war, that he didn't notice that two minutes had past and the vehicle still hadn't budged. Tentative fingers wrapped around his wrist; he could feel her concern in the pressure on his pulse.

"Peter..."

Peter kept his head pressed against the window as he listened to the rest of her words die in her throat. When he didn't respond, he felt her fingers release him and the motor rumble to life. He might have blinked once in the time it took to get to the hospital. Or he might have dozed off. Either way, Olivia hadn't said a word since the SUV started. Although some part of his brain was screaming at him to engage her, to start again digging out the Olivia he was so drawn to buried under all that proverbial brick and mortar, the domineering pain pounding in his parietal lobe was taking precedence over any emotional impulse.

Peter hated the way cold, gloved hands felt against his bare chest. Olivia had wordlessly walked them up to the emergency room, but there was an obstinate pain still planted in her eyes. Peter's undying compassion for the woman, woebegone heart walls or not, tried to shove empathy in his gaze. He would try to vocalize it, but he might puke all over her heels. The extremely late hour, and likely the blood dripping from the gaping wound atop his skull, was enough to bypass any routine paperwork or treatment cues. Two nurses, seeing Olivia supporting him as he struggled to stay conscious, took him from her side and rushed him past the double doors of doom into urgent care.

Peter had never experienced this feeling before, almost like the concussion was spreading like an infection. He mustered enough strength to look back at Olivia, now covering her immodest clothing with a pea coat. The anguish on her face was excruciating. He tried to tell her that he, that they, would be ok with some rest and mutual cooperating to figure out this clusterfuck they created as the double doors closed before her small frame. But all he managed to do was vacate the curdled contents of his protesting stomach into a plastic bag held out by an older nurse on his right side. She was a fucking waste-receptable ninja, Peter mused to himself despite the hurling food particles falling into it from his mouth.

As every meal he had eaten over the last week spilled into a hospital equivalent of a Walmart bag, he felt the contrition and anger start to leave too. Or maybe it was the light feeling inflating in his chest pushing all the negativity out. Or maybe it was the cold floor on his face as he vomited himself into unconsciousness. He wasn't awake long enough to finagle the answer.

_I hear beeping..._

_Beeping isn't good. Either Walter is feeding me hallucinogenic drugs via my waffles, or I'm dead and hell is nothing but a feral series of beeps that ring out all the sensibility in your head. God, I hope it's LSD. I can't take an eternity of mechanical bleating. I wonder if robots count mechanical sheep when they sleep... Maybe I'm in a robotic dream... _

Peter felt himself moving, but there were no hands to support him, and his legs were certainly not working this magic. Full consciousness slammed against his closed eyelids as he finally remembered that he was in the hospital, that he likely had a concussion, and that the commotion around him was more than likely an MRI to check the swelling of his brain. He was surprisingly lucid, save for a fuzz crackling at the ends of his brain. He opened his eyes to a blindingly white room before being helped out of the machine and lead back to a room he didn't remember entering. A paper rustling when he moved and a familiar draft along his backside told him the nurses must have changed him into a hospital gown.

_I hope you enjoyed the view._

After nestling into the uncomfortably crisp sheets on his bed, he heard the door nob crack through the silence of the room. Olivia, more nervous than he ever remembered seeing her, stepped into the room.

"Peter?"

"You thought it was someone else?" he tried to supplement his smartassery with a smile, but even his jaw hurt. He grimaced at him, probably a response to his own wincing.

"I talked to the doctor. He said after looking at your scan, the swelling is minimal. I can check you out whenever your ready to go," Olivia said, hardly holding eye contact with him. "He said you can go home as long as someone monitors you. We'll have to put off going home for at least a few more days."

"Bummer," he groaned, sitting up and looking around for his clothes. Looking up at her, he saw her surveying him with a furrowed brow and a furious assault from her teeth to her lips.

_God, I wish she'd quit that..._

"Peter..." she started in, taking a step forward but stopping in front of an invisible wall that accentuating her apprehension. Peter couldn't take it anymore. Hours ago, she was writhing on top of him, and now she could barely find words to comfort or calm or, hell, convey anything besides this latent fear that motivates everything about what she is. He didn't want to be a cause for it anymore. He just wanted her, calm and safe and his. Why it took fucking in a strip club and a tire iron to the head to realize this could only be a testament to Peter's sentient stupid regarding matters of the heart.

By the time she had finished the nervous dance on her toes, Peter was in front of her, around her, into her. He wrapped an arm around her waist as the other wound into her hair and held her head close to his own.

"Olivia," he said into her ear. A statement, clear and confident in its hidden message. _I'm here. I'm right fucking here, you infuriating human being._

Olivia reciprocated by wrapping him up just as tightly in her own arms, and for a few minutes, they let each other be what they had always been. Partners. Friends. Loving and in love, in their own broken and flawed ways. With a steadying breath, Olivia let herself suck it all down. Peter felt an inexplicable pride for her, maybe because he thought, or hoped, she was finally willing climbing over those obstacles she put in the way of her core. Maybe she was breaking out to go to him instead of making him barge in to rescue her from something only she knew how to tame.

"I just need some time. And patience. And, god I don't know, love maybe, to settle into this," Olivia whisper to Peter's neck. "Despite every reason and rational thought telling me I need to run from this, to protect myself, I don't want to."

Instead of words, Peter just squeezed her a little tighter, his understanding slightly enhanced, but his message still resolutely the same.

_I'm still right here._

* * *

><p><em>AN: I hope it hasn't been so long that the few people following this fic haven't completely given up on it. I am truly sorry for the delay. I do have a chapter or two more for this. And I hope this chapter isn't too disappointing. No smut, but hopefully moving in the right direction for a decent, but not-so-predictable ending.  
><em>

_For those that review, I am so grateful for the feedback. You are truly wonderful.  
>-Ari<em>


	5. Thalamic

The flight back to Boston was odd at best, and that was a foreign politeness that he usually reserved for professional conversations and not his own internal monologue. The truth was a difficult one, comprised of triumphs and defeats both personal and professional.

They had a suspect in custody, but no name and no leads on how to find the true mastermind behind the VD-syringe attacks — mainly because their subject had literally said nothing but "fuck you" and "wouldn't you like to know?" during interrogations. And Olivia had finally opened up, admitted to having feelings and wanting to pursue them with Peter that night in the hospital before she took him back to the hotel. But old habits die hard, as she continued to throw up walls at every advance. Two steps forward, one step back, three steps forward, four steps back.

_What a clusterfuck,_ Peter finally admitted to himself as he watched her slam her fist on the table in the interrogation room for what must be the fiftieth time.

"Tell me where your partner is," she said evenly, although Peter could feel her anger burning holes through the two-way glass as he watched.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Peter wordlessly followed her when she stormed from the interrogation room, out of the Federal Plaza and towards her SUV. It had been weeks since they left the hospital together in Las Vegas, Olivia threading her arm around his until she deposited him in his hotel room, only returning to her own in the following days to shower and sleep until he was well enough to travel.

He knew she asked for space and time, commodities in this endless series of horrors and frustrations that they found themselves in. There was a more gallant part of Peter that obliged and kept his frustrations in the back of his mind and small stitches in these was never been renowned for his patience, but he could see she was grateful when he tried.

And then there was another part of Peter, where he was patient and kind before, here he was rash and reckless and dangerously single-minded. He wanted her, every goddamned part of her, tangled in the bed sheets on Saturday night and propped up on pillows finishing the Globe's crossword on Sunday morning. He wanted the hints of domesticity and the heat of her glare when thoughts turn sordid in the middle of a workday. He wanted fucking like teenagers in the back of an FBI-issued SUV and he wanted her knowing smile when he said something that smacked of smartassery but she knew is really just intended to amuse her.

He wanted it all, every last part of her, for the rest of his earthbound life. Months ago, he would have collapsed at the thought, run like hell to a nameless desert away from Boston and away from her and this "job." But now that he had tasted it, literally and figuratively, he wasn't ready to give it up. He would put up with a lifetime of charred bodies and painful briefings with Broyles if she would just give in.

And so they danced — one step forward, two steps back — like they always have, but now the music was more clear. She weaved and eluded and he pushed and stood in her way. And that was how they ended up here, when her exasperation had finally caught up to her and he'd finally decided to call her bluff, to corner and make her answer for it.

In days since they had returned to Boston, he realized, as they finally reached her vehicle at the end of the parking lot, that they had barely talked at all about just them. Weeks since he'd gotten anything more than a hand on his shoulder or a furtive glance that warned and beckoned all at once.

"This job is bullshit," she spit as she disappeared behind the SUV and dipped into the driver's seat. He scoffed at that, knowing exactly what she meant as he slid into the passenger seat. For all her complaining, she would never give up the pursuit until she tied up everything up — the Pattern, Massive Dynamic and Walter's hazy connection to all of it — in a nice little bow. Just like he may try to convince himself he could still run, he wouldn't until he had her. And when that happened, he wouldn't have a reason to.

"Yeah, well, life's bullshit, sweetheart," he pushed her. "Get some sleep and dust off that sense of justice, because we'll do it all over again tomorrow."

She turned a hard glare at him, probably knowing full well that they weren't talking about the job anymore and forgetting her resistance to actually dealing with things.

"You can't possibly tell me you're willing to do this for the rest of your life?" she said with a sarcasm that vaguely masked a desperation in her that was so foreign that he found it thrilling. It was his turn to stare, wanting to desperately correct her.

_Not mine. Ours._

"And what if I am?"

She resolutely held his gaze, but she still looked cautious until he decided to play the gentleman and look away. He heard the engine rumble to life as he stared out of the passenger window. He knew he shouldn't push too hard; it was a goddamned miracle that she was still speaking to him candidly after what happened in Las Vegas, but she must know that he won't let it go.

"He thinks of himself as an activist," Peter said suddenly after several long moments of silence, finding an odd satisfaction at the way her head snapped away from the road and towards him.

"What are you talking about?" she said impatiently, and he found himself feeling happy about that too.

"Your suspect. He sees himself as an activist, not a criminal. If you soften up a bit–"

"He's killed 15 people and there's a guy out there planning more," she raised her voice.

"If you soften up a bit," he continued, "offer him something he can go on, pretend you understand his passion, but that there were innocent lives lost that he has to answer for, I bet you'd get a bit farther with him."

She didn't respond, remaining quiet until they pulled up in the driveway of the Bishop abode. He was already out of the car before she spoke again.

"I'm sorry."

He bent down to peer at her through his still open door; her eyes glued to the steering wheel.

"For?" he asked, patiently.

"For snapping at you, for the head wound," she said, and he reflexively rubbed the back of his head that had healed weeks ago. "For everything."

"It's nothin'," he smirked at her, but they both knew it was definitely something. "Go home, get some sleep, alright?"

She nodded, "see you tomorrow?"

"Where else would I be?"

She nodded again, once and firmly, before genuinely smiling at him.

"OK," she said, and they waved before he slunk inside, desperate to avoid Walter. The man had a lot of questions and Peter didn't have the energy to find answers for his father, or himself for that matter, tonight. He collapsed in his bed, marveling at the moon as it rose early in the twilight framed in his window, inky clouds turning the dusky sky into a universal Rorschach image. It was a nice breather from the constant roil of his genius mind, panicking about this impasse with Olivia and a genuine want to close this case, before he fell asleep.

* * *

><p>The next morning, perched at hit usual post by the mirrored window into the interrogation room, he felt a weird burst of optimism as he watched Special Agent Olivia Dunham actually take his advice. At the table with her suspect, she spoke with a much softer tone, leaned into him from the opposite side of the table while sitting passively instead of aggressively looming over him. She seemed compassionate, sympathetic even, and the room was absent of her clamoring fists on the table. She had learned his first name, and he began weeping when she asked about his motivations. It was almost amazing to watch, knowing that she was on the verge of shooting him in front of 10 other investigators yesterday, and now she seemed almost nurturing.<p>

"Evan, I know you've been targeting politicians who have been pushing efforts related to a psychiatric hospital in Belmont."

"Somerville," their suspect said through clenched teeth, and he seemed to nod although his whole body was shaking violently.

"Can you tell me why, Evan?"

He wouldn't lift his eyes from his clenched fists and Olivia just leaned closer to him.

"Does this have anything to do with Emily?" she asked kindly, using intel agents were furiously mining for during the interrogation. He threw his whole body back, eyes wild and his breath escaping his throat in violent, hyperventilating gusts.

"Your sister?" she goaded, still gently but determined.

"You have no idea what they did to her," he heaved lowly, dangerously. "That doctor, that whole damned place needs to burn!"

And then he collapsed into a fit of sobs and incoherent pleas.

"Evan, what happened to her was unfathomably horrific," she said, and Peter wondered how genuine the tremble in her voice was. "I understand why you targeted Senator Beason and his colleagues, but I can't for the life of me figure out what happened with the others." Evan sobbed more loudly as she continued, "why them, Evan?"

"It wasn't me," he wails. "I didn't know, I didn't know!"

"Just like you want justice for Emily, their families want justice, Evan," Olivia pressed. "To die like that–"

"I'm so sorry," he choked.

"Tell me who else is behind this. We'll be lenient with you if you testify, you can have a plea deal."

"No!" he screamed in her face, but she never flinched.

"Evan, please," she said, and Peter is mesmerized by the look in her eye and the calm compassion in her voice. Her suspect finally looked up at her and stared, similar to the thousands of times Peter found himself doing the same thing.

"Arthur Winslow," Evan said flaccidly. "He runs a pharmaceutical lab in Nevada."

Olivia's eyes landed on Peter's, although he was pretty positive that she couldn't see him. He smirked at her as she led Evan out of the interrogation room and she raised an eyebrow in warning. This was the closest he would get to gloating today.

They walked in silence to her SUV, but she turned to look, long and hard, at him as he slid into the passenger seat, her hand poised on the key in the ignition. Once settled, pulling the seat belt across his torso, he became uneasy under her attention. He finally returns her gaze.

"What?" he was so tired, sparing no energy for subtlety.

"Broyles is sending over some files about Winslow," she offered, but Peter only responded with a raised eyebrow. "I was going to look them over so that we're prepared for his extradition here."

"That sounds like a thrilling night indeed."

"Maybe not," she said, fighting the upturning corners of her mouth. "But I'm giving you a choice between working late with me on a Friday night or dealing with Walter eating pork rinds and reciting the Fibonacci sequence until he falls asleep–"

"At 4 a.m.," Peter interjected, although now he was pretty sure he was smiling.

"There'll be free pizza," she cajoled. "Unless you had other plans?"

"Nope, none at all," he said, moving his gaze to the window as she started the vehicle. "But can we make it Thai food instead?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I know it's been a long, long time since I updated this. I'm already working on another chapter or two to finish this story, and I hope it will make up for the two-year wait, if anyone is still out there reading. <strong>

**Much love,**

_**-Ari**_


	6. Frontal

Peter followed her into her apartment, shouldering the brown take-out bag and dumping it on the counter while Olivia fished out a few plates from her rarely disturbed cabinets.

"Dig in," she said, tossing the plates on the counter and handing him a form.

"Maybe I will," he said in the same surly mumble he gave when rising to the bait of a challenge, eying her as she stabbed a serving fork into a fold-pack of pad thai. If she heard him, she wasn't about to acknowledge it.

Peter wasn't really keeping track of the time, but Olivia's eyes had become strained enough to where she fished out her glasses as she read something on her work laptop. She was curled into a corner on the couch, files spread around her in a makeshift fort so that he was forced to sit a few feet away from her. Peter was vacillating between a genuine interest in the files between them and a fascination with the way she bit her lips or furrowed her brow behind those frames. Luckily for him, she had not protested when he started covertly moving the files from around her to the table, the floor or her briefcase as he read them, if she had noticed at all. When she finally gave up the staring contest with her screen, Peter was close enough to lean over her shoulder and to peruse what she was reading.

She looked at him then, fathomless and quiet. As much as he liked to look at her, Peter was starting to feel fatigue and something akin to heartburn during these staring contests they'd been prone to lately, pregnant with possibility and what he hoped was not regret. He continued to watch her as she folded her laptop and tossed it onto the couch arm.

"I guess we should talk about what's happened," she said, squaring up to him. "About Vegas. About us."

"I can make it simple for you," he offered, sweeping her long hair behind her ear and inwardly rejoicing the lack of a recoil.

"Can you?" she hummed, leaning into his touch.

"I'm pretty sure you know what I want, Liv," he said. "I'm just waiting to hear what it is that you want."

"Yeah," she said flaccidly as she stared and stared, eyes batting between both of his.

"So, what is it, Olivia?" he said, a little exasperated, thumbing her jaw impatiently.

"You," she said, and his eyes were begging for confirmation. "I want you."

After that, he could only think to kiss her and he did, fervently. He tangled his hands in her hair as their lips moved in sync, noses rubbing as he really drank her in. When he felt the tip of her tongue lining his lips, he pulled her closer as her leg slid across his lap and she came to straddle him. He couldn't keep his hands still as she moved against him, kneading at her back and squeezing her sides as she swayed and bucked above him. He groaned when he felt her weight push down into his lap, his hands coming to grasp her hips and pull her down as he pushed up. She responded with her own breathy moans and gasps as they ground their hips in an agonizingly slow pace.

He would never get enough of this, he thought as he slid his fingers under her shirt, feeling the muscles tense under her warm skin. She broke the kiss then, looking at him hard with heavy lids and irises hiding behind passionate pupils. She was breathing hard, and a gentleman may have paused then, but Peter'd had enough waiting and not enough of Olivia under his hands and in his mouth. Forgoing the buttons, he took the opportunity to pull her shirt over her head, fingertips barely ever leaving her skin. She began pulling at the hem of his shirt as he tangled his hand in her hair again and latched his mouth to the spot on her neck right below her ear.

"Peter," she almost whispered, and it wasn't loud enough. So he licked and sucked until her heavy breathing was a steady mantra of moans. He was almost to her collarbone when she managed to pull his shirt up between them and yank it off of his head. He took his other hand and put it on the small of her back, squashing her to him as he kissed her senseless. The way she squirmed against him made him harder by the second until his jeans are strained beyond reason and she couldn't move without feeling him press into her. He was on the verge of tearing at her bra before he felt her pressure leave his lap. He opened his eyes to find her on her knees as she freed him from his jeans and tugged them to his ankles.

He didn't even have time to say her name as she plunged forward, taking every inch of his manhood that sprang out of his boxers with her eyes wide and unblinking until he feels his tip hit the back of her throat. He made the most undignified guttural noise he'd ever heard as she began to move up and down, pumping him with her hand as she bobs, never looking away from him. He felt his hips thrusting to meet her as she picked up speed, making the most delicious sounds he'd ever heard. It took every ounce of self-control not to explode in her mouth when he feels her suck hard and move all the way down his shaft, squeezing his testicles.

"Fuck, 'Livia," he grunted before pulling her up by the arms, crushing his lips against hers as he ground her back into his lap and pulled impatiently at her bra. He bent down to take her nipple into his mouth, abusing it with his teeth and soothing it with his tongue, as he pulled the straps down her shoulders. He finally freed her completely after popping the clasp behind her, now using his hands to pinch and squeeze at her breasts while assaulting them with his tongue.

"Oh my god," she moaned, but it still wasn't loud enough. He wanted to make her scream, to wake up the neighbors and make them explain to their children what those violent and guttural noises were coming from beyond the walls. He forcefully pushed her off and back into the couch cushions, leering hungry above her as he kicked off the pants around his feet and pulled impatiently at her own slacks. As soon as he'd pulled the hooks and snaps free and yanked the zipper down, he pushed a hand inside and sunk fingers into her deep, inviting heat.

Her mouth opened wide in a moan and he stared at her obscenely as she arched her back and bucked into his hand. He kissed her fiercely as he pummeled her and she thrust — up, down, up, down, up, up, up — until she was coming hard but still not yet screaming and Peter couldn't take it anymore.

"I need to be inside you," he groaned, ripping his hand out and pulling violently at her pants until they were on the floor and she was back in his lap, wet folds sliding against his erectness. He pulled her down, hard, and speared her until he couldn't go any deeper. She yelped, her mouth staying open, as they stared and stared. His hands were grasping her buttocks as they began to move slowly and he couldn't help but be mesmerized and almost embarrassed at how her eyes rake his image. She moaned loudly when her eyes reached his dick, pumping in and out of her velvet heat. He took a hand, grasping her hair, and pulled her into him, kissing and sucking and biting.

"Peter, you're so big," she moaned into his ear as he bit down on her collarbone, causing her to wince and moan. And he was pumping faster and harder, feeling her fingernails digging into his back and tugging at his hair. He grasped her hips and angled them up and forward so he could drive deeper inside of her, and then he got what he wanted.

"Peter!" she screamed, tossing her head back as he continued to lathe her neck and chest with his mouth. "Peter, I'm so close."

And then she screamed again, exploding around him as he kept pumping into her. He pushed her off of him, standing before pushing her back on the sofa, her front facing the back of the couch and her spread knees buried in the cushion. He saw her hands brace herself on the back of the couch as he knelt behind her, knees inside of hers, and pushed his length against her wet, dripping heat.

He buried his nose into her hair, taking in a breath of her hair and the heady perfume of sex as he slowly entered her again. His hands wandered down her sides, around her torso, kneading her legs and squeezing her sensitive breasts. He bit down on her earlobe, teasing it with his tongue and whispering truly obscene intentions into her ear as she moaned loudly.

"Jesus, Olivia," he panted in her ear. She was so tight and so wet as he completely sheathed himself inside of her. "You feel so fucking good."

He dropped his fingers from their treatment on her nipples to her soft wetness and he pressed a finger to her most sensitive spot and another sighing scream exploded from her throat. He started aggressively swirling his fingers on her clit as he pumped hard against her. She threw her head back against his shoulder as he sucked and fucked her into a screaming, moaning oblivion. She finally came again, moaning and milking him until he gripped her hips to his exploding shaft, spilling himself inside of her as her name fell from his mouth. They collapsed against the couch, Peter falling sideways and she following until he could wrap her up and press the length her body to his.

She turned in his embrace and stared at him, using her fingers to help memorize every curve and dip of his face. He couldn't help but smile when her fingers reached his lips and she kissed him soundly.

"I don't know what took me so long," she breathed into his mouth as they parted. He chuckled huskily, running his fingers over her body and leaving goosebumps in his wake.

"I need to figure out how to punish you for the torture you've put me through."

"Wasn't waiting punishment enough?" And he almost caved at the pleading look in her eyes, but...

"No," he grinned, grabbing her wandering hands and pinning them above her head as he moved over her. He dragged his eyes slowly from her face, down her nude and flushed body and back.

"Not even close."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: As promised, another chapter. I waffled a bit with this chapter... should they do it? Maybe not? I'm not sure if it's that great, and I haven't started another chapter yet, but I promise the next update will not take two years. Give me a few days, and I'll have something new. And thank you so, so much for the feedback. You all are so kind!<strong>

**_—Ari_**


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